Christopher Haywood Poet Rhyme

Sacred Trust

Deep beneath the twisted root, 
Where silence wears a felt boot, 
The mother curls in circles tight, 
A ring of warmth against the night. 
Her brush is draped like silken thread, 
A pillow for each tiny head.

With silver tongue and patient grace, 
She washes every fuzzy face;
A rhythmic stroke, a tender sweep, 
To lull her restless kits to sleep. 
She nicks the clay and clears the air, 
The mistress of her earthen lair.

When hunger nips at bellies small, 
She answers to their whimpering call. 
She leaves the warmth of huddle and home, 
Through silvered wilds and woods to roam. 
She answers every hungry need, 
And gives her waiting kits a feed.

But if the heavy foot should fall, 
Or shadow loom against the wall, 
The mother transforms—sharp and keen, 
The fiercest flame that’s ever been. 
With bared tooth and a warning low, 
She stands between them and foe.

In golden coat and eyes of fire, 
She is the shield, a mother’s desire. 
Until the stars begin to pale, 
And dawn unfolds its violet veil, 
She keeps the watch, the sacred trust,
Amidst the roots and cooling dust.

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